


tête-à-tête

by earliegrey



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-04-12
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:33:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earliegrey/pseuds/earliegrey
Summary: [nijiaka drabble collection for the bits and pieces; ratings may change ^q^;]04. Shuuzou walks down the corridor.Away from basketball, to the homework he’s left unfinished on his desk, and into the kitchen where his mother once was“It’s in your hands now, Captain. I’m counting on you.”(A semi-Nijimura centric drabble; hurt/comfort I guess.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 0.1 a case where Nijimura did come back to watch the extra game, Akashi had decided to stay in Tokyo a bit to hang out with him; there was a downpour and Nijimura’s clothes are soaked. We start here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something short and a bit spicy, hope you don't mind. ^q^;; A little bit of warning that it's probably R15...yea. Anyways, happy reading!

“Akashi, what the fuck.”

The name itches a nerve and Akashi wants to pin him against the hotel bed and force him to say his name– _Seijuurou_ , because it’s been _years._  

But _patience_. Patience is the surefire way to victory.

Instead, he smiles at the half-naked visiting American student standing a foot away. Innocently, Akashi looks at him—and then appreciates the water beading on Nijimura’s abs. He doesn’t bother stifling his appraising hum. “Excuse me?”

“These,” Nijimura throws down a jersey that has the #4 on it beneath a stylized VS. It lands on the bed with a _whmp._  “Are your clothes from the match the other day.”

“Ah, that’s indeed the case. It appears to be a size too small.”

Nijimura makes a face—the ridiculous duck lip face that he always had since middle school. “Why.”

“Humor me,” Akashi says, and then adds as an afterthought, “Captain Nijimura.”

“Don’t call me that,” he growls, looking away. Akashi smiles, lacing a gentle hand around Nijimura’s wrist. He can feel the uneven ridges and the veins of his arm. He’s still in shape despite quitting the sport years ago. Despite what he says, Nijimura always maintained the integrity and passion needed for a captain.

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything else to offer you while your clothes are drying,” Akashi lies, fingers picking apart Nijimura’s clenched fist. Rough skin and hot finger tips, Akashi’s pulse flutters slightly when Nijimura grips back.

“It’s this or that, isn’t it? You’re always full of demands,” Nijimura says, towering over Akashi, slightly. He leans over to rest his cheek into Akashi’s hair. Gentle and cautious, calculative. _It’s been two years._

“I’m fine with it either way.” Akashi pauses, tilts his head and relishes the feeling of light lips against his eyelid. Butterfly kisses down the side of his face. “You’re already half naked anyways. It’s a bonus if you wear it. After all, it _is_ your team in the first place.”

“Don’t give me any of that bullshit. You just have a weird captain kink.”

Akashi presses his palm flat against Nijimura’s chest, brushing, lower, fingertips running along his waistband. “Says the one who responded like this, hm, _Captain_?”

“Cheeky.” Nijimura has a hand on Akashi’s arm, slowly guiding him to fall onto the mattress behind him. He’s trembling; it’s adorable.

Akashi turns his head, lips catching Nijimura’s, tongue easing past his stubborn pout. “I’ll agree with that.”

He pulls Nijimura down over him, hooking an arm around his neck, while his other hand presses decisively against Nijimura’s abdomen. It’s slow and burning, searching, always searching, and subdued.  

Nijimura is the first to part and Akashi nearly chases; his kisses were and are always tender and soft. “So.” He brushes aside Akashi’s bangs, kissing his temple. “We’re really doing this.”

Akashi looks at him blankly. “Did you think I had something else in mind when I invited you into my hotel room?”

Red lances up from his cheeks to his hairline. “No, _what_? Of course I knew,” he sputters, eyebrows knitting. “I just—you know. I’m not sure how this goes.”

Akashi smiles, poised but a tad bit amused. Of course, he wouldn't. Nijimura had always been conscious of delicate and soft things being held in his rough hands. Akashi probably, and oddly, fits right in that category.

“That’s all right, I’ll tell you what to do,” Akashi reassures, placing his open mouth against his, suckling against his lower lip. Nijimura relaxes, following along, and humming against him, kisses along Akashi's jaw, breathless.

“Oh? And that’s what?” 

“First.” Akashi leans up and nibbles his earlobe.

“Put on the jersey.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 02\. Nijimura catches a cold. // It never sat well with him to lie to Akashi, no matter how white it may be. The guilt spins into nausea and the soggy noodles in his stomach lurch.
> 
> He feels sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! Another one I'll be putting in here. So I realized I'm really not creative with my titles, so I'll just group up whatever I'm writing into here. _(:3
> 
> Hope you enjoy it! Thank you so much for reading!

_—Friday_

Nijimura first notices it during his third period of math, while drawing graphs on the chalkboard. He opens his mouth to talk about parabolas, but there’s a knot in his throat.

He pauses and clears his throat several times.

His students stare at him, attention barely held as he takes a hearty swig of the Pocari on his desk.

With a few coughs to the side, he’s hiding it real nicely.

Nijimura continues his lecture while trying not to gag like he’s swallowed sandpaper.

By the fourth period, he’s coughing into his handkerchief. They’re short coughs, scathing and dry.

His neighboring math teacher peers over the desk. “You feeling all right?”

Nijimura could cough some more and be miserable in front of a witness. After all, the school is gracious and strict enough to send him home and find a substitution without much convincing.

And usually, Nijimura Shuuzou would not lie.

But there’s a test he has to proctor in the following afternoon, and so he does. Just this once.

“I’m fine.”

 

 

He passes out thick stacks of paper, riddled with incomplete equations to his advanced math students, second years tackling calculus.

Nijimura remembers that he struggled with geometry, but his students don’t need to know that.

During the silence as his students work on their exams, amongst the pencils scratching and confused head holding, Nijimura sniffs.

And coughs.

One of the sweetest students to ever grace his teaching career pauses, lifts her head from her test and looks at him with those large, round. brown eyes. She asks, “Sensei, are you okay?”

He waves at her.

She waits and he waits for an overdue sneeze. It doesn’t come; it settles like a tickling sting in his nose.

Nijimura mumbles, “It’s the allergies. You know, pollen. Don’t worry about it.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but then again, Nijimura is god awful at pretending.

But he does pretend to not hear the cheeky brat, Takahara, mutter under his breath, “Yeah, but it’s the dead of winter.”

 

 

The bell rings without him noticing—actually, he doesn’t even hear the ruffle of noise behind him.

Students shove books into their bags, metal pencil boxes slam shut, and chairs and tables screech a centimeter on the floor.

“All right, brats, I expect you all to finish this assignment by tomorrow.”

A kind voice rings out from somewhere. Nijimura’s ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. “You mean next week?”

“Next week?”

Someone gives him a nod, and the rest of the class stares at him, waiting for him to dismiss them like the polite students they are expected to be.

“Oh, right,” he says, mouth numb. “It’s Friday.”

Relief sags his shoulders, and he starts to organize his textbook and teaching notes into a pile.

It’s Friday.

Thank god for Fridays.

 

 

It must have been one of the sick kids in his class. It has to be. Vaguely, he recalls Miyamoto unleashing a flood of wet sneezes on Tuesday.

Nijimura balls his hand into a fist and presses it against his head, it throbs as he tries to remember. He collected worksheets from class that day. Putting two and two together, that explains why Nijimura is as miserably sick as he is now.

“You should leave early; take some medicine, rest over the weekend,” his friendly neighborhood math teacher says.

Nijimura grunts his reply. He’ll take the weekend off and bounce back on Monday. That sounds good.

 

 

Lying half-naked on his bed skewed with pillows, the still air in his room settles over him like a thick blanket.

He had some leftover cold medicine and downed it with lemon juice too. Nijimura reaches for his phone a bit before he sleeps, at the odd time of 4:37pm.

_[Sorry Akashi, something came up with school. I won’t be able to make it tonight.]_

Nijimura drops his hand near his side, gazing up at the ceiling fan. Their relationship can be described as four years and half-professional, that is to say, work takes its priority, and they’re old enough to understand.

A light vibration in his hand brings him back to the moment. Nijimura almost dozed off. Through his sleepy gaze, Akashi responded.

_[All right. Please take care to not overwork yourself. ]_

Nijimura can almost imagine Akashi’s downward gaze and dejected sigh.

_[You take care too.]_

Nijimura’s stomach clenches and nausea sets in—the guilt starts churning in him, and his nose burns.

A white lie is still a lie, as white as it is.

He closes his eyes and allows the overbearing warmth in his room to consume him.

 

 

_— Saturday_

Midnight.

Nijimura wakes up in a sweat-soaked shirt, hungry.

He stumbles into the kitchen, hand unsteady on the counter top. In his barely functioning brain, he remembers that his mother used to make him rice porridge, sprinkling it with some ginger and pieces of pork.

He tosses the rice into the cooker and pours more than a cup of water without looking, sets it in and presses the button.

He has ginger, but no pork. Some seaweed and salt would be good enough for substitution, probably.

Nijimura eats his dinner at 2 am, but couldn’t.

If he didn’t throw it up in the toilet, the rest was poured down the sink.

 

 

It’s a blur.

Crumpled tissue dot his floor, and torn foil of his cold medicine hang off the edge of his bed.

The curtains are drawn in his room; whether day or night, Nijimura couldn’t tell.

It’s cold from the winter, but hot in his skin. He’s showered twice today just to clear his nose, but it barely offered any relief.

There’s a knot in his chest, and his breath filters weakly through his lips like an empty balloon.

It’s unbearably hot.

Nijimura throws off his covers and tosses an arm over his eyes.

Breathing has never been harder.

 

 

_—Sunday_

He doesn’t wake up until past noon.

Then, when he does, he just drinks lots of pocari, eats more pills, blows his nose with the other half of a box of tissue paper, and gargles salt water.

Akashi asks: _[Nijimura-san?]_

Nijimura replies: _[Grading papers, sorry.]_

Then, he sleeps some and in between all of that.

 

 

_—Monday_

It’s near impossible for anyone to feel better once they’ve started feeling sick.

The flu always sets in by the third day, viciously attacking with a high fever and nausea. Nothing can stop it, except sheer willpower and aggressively drinking honey lemon tea. But even then, Nijimura is not superman.

The next morning, Nijimura wears a face mask and wobbles to school. He drops a thick slab of this week’s schedule and graded assignments for his substitute to use for the rest of the time he’s gone.

Nijimura stumbles back home, sleeps through the day and into the night.

 

 

_—Tuesday_

_[Nijimura-san, I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but you didn’t respond to me yesterday. I’d like to meet with you before I leave.]_

He nearly drops his phone into his empty ramen bowl. Coughing, Nijimura sets his phone back down against the counter top, brushing away the stray bits of cup noodle bits nearby.

He forgot to check for messages yesterday.

Nijimura slept through dinner—or more like, slept through Akashi’s invitation to dinner.

Again.

The thought of Akashi patiently waiting for his reply throughout the evening—hurts.

 _Shit, I’m a terrible guy_ , Nijimura thinks, frowning. Then, he backtracks.

 _Terrible_ would be coughing in Akashi’s face. _Terrible_ would also be Akashi having to worry over him as if he was a child sick from school. Nijimura is a responsible adult, he’s been doing all right so far with nursing himself back to health.

He’s gotten better, although slowly.

There is no need for him to hold Akashi back from a business trip to Taiwan this week, not when Akashi was looking forward to closing a long awaited deal.

_[ahh, actually, something came up with school, a project of that kind. My coworkers were thinking of_

Nijimura stops there.

Thinking of what?

Going to an izakaya to hash away at possible ideas? Would Akashi even believe him at this point? Of back to back to back assignments, grading, and meetings?

He sighs, moving back to his room, a slow, somber march back to his sick bed.

It never sat well with him to lie to Akashi, no matter how white it may be. The guilt spins into nausea and the soggy noodles in his stomach lurch.

He feels sick.

 

 

_—Wednesday_

Nijimura wakes up to a polite, but incessant knocking on his door–and then followed by well-timed _ding_ of his doorbell.

Only one person knocks like that, and it isn’t the delivery man.

_Akashi._

Nijimura rolls over to his stomach, hand gripping his phone. He buries his face into his pillow. His head hurts.

_[I’m coming over.]_

God, anything but this.

 

 

 

He’s livid if there’s anything to go by his knitted brows and terse stance. His lips are drawn tightly; Nijimura gives him a suffering look.

“Nijimura-san,” Akashi says as way of greeting, voice quiet.

Akashi doesn’t wait for him to invite him inside. He just brushes past, neatly slipping through the space of Nijimura’s arm and the door.

“How are you here,” Nijimura croaks, barely a whisper.

Akashi strips off his winter coat, dusted with a sheen of moisture, and folds it neatly before putting it on the chair in the foyer.

“I was at school.” As if it was an explanation. Nijimura opens his mouth— “And you weren’t.”

They stand at an impasse. Akashi levels a hard stare at him, keeping his chin up, but there’s no doubt that his jaw is tense.

“You’re pissed,” Nijimura blatantly points out. He applauds himself for being conscious enough to notice, though Akashi doesn’t seem to appreciate his efforts.

“I haven’t heard from you for _two_ days,” he starts, voice subdued. “Messages were read, but you didn’t reply. I thought you were busy, but then I _thought_ about it more—”

“Akashi—”

“I thought—maybe you lost your phone, but you aren’t that careless. What if someone took it? But they wouldn’t have known your passcode. Then I saw on the news that—”

“ _Akashi_.” Nijimura puts a hand on Akashi’s shoulder. It’s enough to make him stop and take a deep breath; his brows wrinkle up even more, his lip-biting is even prominent.

“It’s just the flu,” Nijimura says tiredly. “I’m not…I’m not going anywhere.”

Akashi lets out a slow breath, still obviously rattled. “Yes… of course. It’s just—’

“I know,” Nijimura hums hazily; when he blinks, the world tilts a little bit to the left.

There’s a pause before Akashi’s voice ices over again. “You should have told me.”

He closes his eyes slowly. “I didn’t want you to worry, like _this_ ,” Nijimura makes a vague gesture towards Akashi’s direction.

When he does look at him, Akashi isn’t amused, his temper still burns red in his bright eyes. “And you thought that repeatedly ignoring me was better?”

“Believe me, I wouldn’t if I could help it,” Nijimura mumbles, burying a hand into the side of his head.

“But you did.”

“ _Of course_ I did, you had an important trip to Taiwan today—” Nijimura growls, taking a step back and resting against the wall. The slight pressure relieves the sharp pain in the base of his neck. “You’re not even supposed to be here.”

“I’m here because I was _worried_ ,” he argues back. Nijimura recognizes this: it’s an age-old skit that’s happened before, with Akashi putting Nijimura under the gun.

Nijimura opens his mouth to say something—maybe something dry and sardonic, and they’d fight until one of them relents. Honestly though, he’s too tired and sick for that shit.

But, Akashi beats him to it.

“Nijimura-san,” he says, tone softer, clearing his voice. Nijimura watches him warily. The gun slips away when Akashi steps closer, fingers reaching out for his. “You told me this once, right? If there was anything bothering me, I should tell you immediately.”

Nijimura blinks. Right, that was something he said before—or more like, yelled. A tinge of guilt strikes him in the heart as Akashi’s voice steadies into a whisper. “I want you to rely on me as well.”

Akashi stares down at Nijimura’s hand as he curls his fingers, tentative, around his hand. “…I rescheduled the business trip to Taiwan, I’ll be going in two weeks.”

Akashi’s mouth thins out into a small frown, a worried look.

It’s not easy for Akashi to concede; and he looks small, withdrawn with his shoulders hung and head bowed.

“Thank you,” Nijimura sighs, pulling Akashi closer to him until his cheek rests against his head. His hair is soft and smells nice. Akashi always has something like a sweet fragrance around him. “I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Akashi settles himself against him, head tucked into the crook of Nijimura’s neck, relaxed. A huff of breath, and those red eyes peer up at him, softer this time around. “How are you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Nijimura coughs, away to the side.

“Did you eat anything yet?”

He shakes his head, content with how nice and cold Akashi is. Which is a given since he was marching in from outside up until a while ago.

“You should take a shower” Akashi says, pulling away, nose crinkling. Nijimura probably stinks of sweat. He can’t remember when the last time he was not in his bed. “Your room is stuffy, did you think of turning on the heater?”

Nijimura only hums in agreement as Akashi leads him to the bathroom, tsking softly at the mess of laundry near the door. “I’ll get you a change of clothes as you shower.”

And with that, Akashi shuts him in the bathroom with the still winter air.

Nijimura shudders as he peels off his shirt, it stinks like his sweaty gym shoes.

 

 

There was a day Aomine stopped by Nijimura’s flat because he had a fight with Kagami, as usual. Their stations are located right next to each other, so there are bound to be friendly and not so friendly TPD and TFD arguments. What happens most of the time is that their dispute often gets carried back home.

Nijimura is a gracious person, so he decided to cook Aomine’s share of dinner that night. Thing is, this happened almost immediately after his birthday.

Which was when Momoi had given him a frilly rainbow apron, and Nijimura was fond of her enough to use it.

That time, Aomine laughed his ass off at how hilariously tiny it looked on him until Nijimura whacked him upside the head.

A mass text was sent out and the following day, Akashi immediately showed up at his door.

“It’s the stupid apron, isn’t it,” Nijimura asked, after reading the poorly hidden anticipation on Akashi’s face.

Except this time, when it was Akashi who laughed, Nijimura just flicked him on the forehead.

Somehow it never occurred to Nijimura, in the four years of officially going out with Akashi, how small Akashi was in comparison.

It hadn’t occurred to him when he was in America for college; it definitely didn’t register when he came back.

The height difference between him and Akashi had been consistent since middle school. It was something that didn’t change (though it had.)

Nijimura’s height now rivaled Aomine’s, but he hadn’t stopped to actually consider how he was two sizes larger.

That frilly apron that had looked ridiculously tiny on him, actually fit Akashi well, the fringe of the skirt stopping midway of his thighs.

“You don’t have a lot of things in your fridge, so I ordered some when you were showering,” Akashi explains, holding a sharp knife and a bowl of neatly chopped tofu.

Nijimura stares past the grocery bags and looks at Akashi, who has his back turned. Sitting at the small of his back is the apron’s ribbon, neatly tied.

“You’re wearing my apron.”

Akashi sighs a little, fighting an amused smile. He pretends to be occupied with cutting up the vegetables to add into the soup broth. “I know how possessive you are of it. I’ll give it back very soon.”

Nijimura blinks stupidly. Akashi and frills somehow look perfect together, like how he always imagines Akashi’s aesthetic as teacup doilies and English sweets. “It looks nice.”

“Thank you,” Akashi replies.

The silence in the air is accompanied by the soft rumble from the overhead ventilation.

“You know, you didn’t need to cook,” Nijimura says, floating closer toward him. Nijimura hovers and props his chin atop Akashi’s head. Clearly, it’s obvious he’s almost a head taller. Then, he notices that the rainbow apron has red buttons on its straps. “I’m sick but I can still manage something.”

“I wanted to.” Akashi sets down the knife and then turns down the stove. “Besides, even I can do something as simple as this.”

Nijimura peers into the pot; there are some mishapened carrots, potatoes, and oddly cut celery.

He bites back a smile, Akashi’s cooking skills are enough to be functional not aesthetically appealing. He remembered Akashi making that point very clear the first time he cooked for him.

“Isn’t that’s a lot soup for the morning?”

Akashi’s sleeves are rolled up to his arms, buttoned perfectly to avoid the splashes when he carefully lowers cubes of tofu into the pot.

“Hm? Oh—no, this is for the entire day.”

Nijimura nearly blanches. “The entire day–”

“You can’t eat anything else right?” Akashi wipes his hands, and turns to look up at him. Guileless cat-eyes. “If it’s soup, it’ll digest easily.”

He’s got a point there, Nijimura thinks, accepting his fate of soup for a day and a half. He doesn’t really complain though, it’s a great honor (and act of affection) that Akashi would even want to care for him, cook for him too.

Wrapping his arms around Akashi’s waist, he nuzzles into Akashi’s head of soft hair. It’s been days since he’s seen him.

Days of missed dinners and missed nights when Akashi would stay over and—

“I’m starving.” Nijimura sighs loudly, squeezing Akashi closer. He swears Akashi gasped, just a little.

“Have some patience, I’m almost done,” Akashi says, clanking the ladle on the side of the pot. He measures salt carefully, by the teaspoon.

“I didn’t mean that,” Nijimura says, slipping his hands between the fabrics of his frilly apron and Akashi’s navy blue sweater—the teaspoon in Akashi’s steady hand _stutters_.

“Nijimura-san.” The tone icy and stern, Nijimura yanks his hands away by reflex. “I know what you meant.”

Akashi turns slightly and flicks him lightly in the forehead, then pinches his nose. “ _Have some patience_.”

If Akashi’s fingers weren’t already squishing his nose, Nijimura would’ve stopped breathing at Akashi’s cheeky grin.

“Now, will you be a good boy and wait in the living room?” Akashi asks, breaking away from Nijimura’s grip to dutifully rewash his hands.

Grudgingly, Nijimura lets go, but not before plantimg a light kiss on the back of Akashi’s neck. “If I’m good, can I have dessert after this?”

Akashi laughs, but the tips of his ears are flushed red. “Well, aren’t you the spoiled child.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Nijimura gets a damp paper towel thrown in his face. “Just go.”

 

 

“When you wear a mask like that, it makes me think I have a dangerous disease or something.”

Nijimura puts his spoon back into the bowl; he’s been drinking it for a while and it feels like drinking from a bottomless abyss.

Akashi, sitting next to him, _maybe_ smiles, but his eyes crease into the familiar cat-like gaze.

The white mask obscures half of his face. Nijimura is a bit unsettled that he hears a voice but doesn’t see a mouth. “It’s just a precaution, please don’t mind it.”

Nijimura drinks his soup in response.

It’s bland, then again, his tastebuds are pretty off, but it’s warm enough to stir satisfaction. The silence continues, Akashi seems content watching him eat.

“It was one of the kids,” Nijimura confesses, finally done with most of the cubed vegetables.

Akashi’s brows rise a tad bit in interest as Nijimura continues, “He was sneezing a lot and all over the place before another teacher sent him home. I guess I caught it from him, huh.”

“You were tired and overworked, it’s easy to catch something in that state,” Akashi says, reaching out a hand to card through Nijimura’s bangs. What a role reversal.

“I guess,” Nijimura agrees, leaning into Akashi’s soft touch.“I thought I could last a bit longer until the semester ended but…”

“You’re stubborn, you know,” Akashi tsks, venom lacking in his insult. “You should listen to yourself more. _Stop fucking pushing yourself to the brink of exhaustion, goddammit—_ or something like that.”

Nijimura feels his cheeks flush, as the memory creeps back on him. “Don’t use my words against me like that.”

Akashi laughs, eyes crinkling with the familiar fond sparkle. “That’s why I said you should listen to yourself more.”

 

 

A warm hand on his arm, and Nijimura is led to and shoved onto his bed.

Swiftly buried under his covers, he is then slapped with a wet towel over his face.

With his arms crossed, Akashi stared down at him, casting his _absolute_ gaze that was mostly reserved for those who defied him. He said: “Rest.”

Nijimura honestly didn’t have the heart to kindly inform him that the wet towel wasn’t needed. But he was glad he didn’t, because midway in his slumber, Nijimura peeked from under his lashes to watch Akashi carefully wringing out said towel with his bottom lip pressed under his teeth. 

It’s interesting to him that Akashi, who is usually very quick to use facilities and services available to him, would prefer to do something as grueling as taking care of someone sick.

But then again, that probably just speaks volumes to how much he cared.

 

 

Nijimura wakes up to a towel now lukewarm and a soft golden glow on the side of his face. Blinking away his sleep, Nijimura pulls away the damp cloth and tosses it aside.

After a spell of a sleepy moment, he realizes that the glow on his face was from the sunset streaking in from the window.

It’s getting late.

Nijimura slept for most of the afternoon.

Akashi, for the most part, read.

He is resourceful but traditional; Akashi foregoes his smartphone and reads bound literature, usually pulled out from somewhere in the air.

This time, Akashi sits on a chair by his bedside, legs daintily crossed, reading a Chinese medicinal book.

“Akashi,” he croaks, just as the other turns a page. “Don’t you have work?”

Nijimura watches him blink, eyelashes fluttering as he keeps his eyes on the page. “It’s not your business to care about my work.”

And like that, Akashi shuts him down, but Nijimura barely takes offense at the quiet, chiding tone.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah, not as groggy,” he mumbles, turning onto his side completely. He studies Akashi, who’s still poised with grace. “Looking at recipes?”

“Determining which would be most effective in boosting your immune system.”

Nijimura coughs weakly. “As long as you don’t add vitamin pills and protein powder into it, it’ll be fine.”

“I assure you, Aida-san had the best intentions in mind.”

A page turns.

“I’m pretty sure she hospitalized most of Seirin post-Winter Cup. I’m surprised their parents didn’t sue her.”

Akashi chuckles, and then puts the book away, magicked away somewhere where Nijimura could no longer see. “That’s true, but it was the thought that mattered.”

“I suppose,” Nijimura mumbles, breathing noisily through his nose. One of his nostrils are clogged up. The bane of having a stuffy nose. “Come to think of it, Momoi said she was going to cook something up for your birthday.”

Akashi barely hides a cringe.

“I…have faith that Sakurai-san will keep us alive.”

“Please. I don’t want to die so soon.”

They share a light laughter at the thought, and Nijimura smiles at him in the darkening room.

Akashi leans forward, fingers entangling with Nijimura’s, fingertips sliding over his knuckles and gripping it slightly.

Like this, Nijimura feels ease slip through his congested chest; breathing becomes a lot easier.

It’s quiet, subdued.

The room basks in a warm golden blanket. The heater rumbles quietly overhead.

Akashi’s hand is warm, and soft. His crimson eyes are dark and peaceful, watching. Waiting. Nijimura doesn’t look away.

“Hey,” Nijimura does say after a while.

Akashi jars out of his quiet contemplation. Then, Nijimura shifts a few inches back and motions at the small space he made. “I’m not hacking up a lung right now;  sleep with me?”

A few moments pass as Akashi very carefully withdraws his hands from Nijimura’s grip. He stands up from his chair, suddenly grabbing at the sheets Nijimura is entangled in.

“I’m going to wash your bedsheets first.”

Nijimura frowns.

“You realize you just killed the mood, right?”

At that, Akashi laughs, leaning down to press his lips—or mask— against Nijimura’s forehead, hand brushing back his hair.

Then---yanks the blanket away from him with a flourish.

“Believe me, it was already gone when you asked.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 03\. With Rakuzan, where Mayuzumi is in the same year and Nijimura transferred in, Reo is not pleased.
> 
> Prompt: [How do you think other characters would perceive nijiaka? How would they react to their relationship?]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay. 8D;;;;; Happy Nijiaka week huuu~~

_Too close_ , Reo thinks, chewing on his straw. He's been glaring holes into the side of Nijimura's face for a while although the other didn't seem to notice.

 _Annoying_ , he thinks, as Nijimura's hand brushes against Akashi's, barely, as he points at something on the smartphone he's holding.

"Hmm, this one has good reviews. It's in our budget, close to the mountain, and a train stop away from the coastline."

Akashi falters a bit, taken back at the voice in his ear. Reo had thought, by now Akashi should've gotten used to it. It seems not.

"I'll bring it up to the coach."

"Reo-nee," Hayama says, resting himself on whatever piece of table that wasn't littered with burger wrappers. "Are you gonna eat that?"

Hayama looks hungrily at the two or three sticks of fries Reo left behind in its package. With a sigh, he shoves the fries over, grimacing slightly as he unfortunately catches sight of Nebuya shoving burgers into his blackhole of a mouth.

"Here, take it."

Now back to chewing his straw---Nijimura has taken upon himself to lean right into Akashi's space, pressing his chest into Akashi's shoulder, humming as he flicks, pinches, and scrolls through summer camping spots.

Akashi does not have a flushed face. He's steady and attentive, looking at the small screen. If anything, Akashi is still. _Too still_ \---he's stifling his breath as Nijimura speaks.

Reo frowns.

It's taken him a year to work up the nerve and familiarity to even touch Akashi on the shoulder; and here waltzes in a former upperclassmen, whose first gesture to their basketball captain was a rough pat on his head. Several months later and here they are---Reo, across the table, and Nijimura, snug next to Akashi.

If there's one thing Reo knows about their young captain, it's that he carefully dodges Nebuya's sweaty high-fives and Hayama's obnoxious (affectionate) tackles, but hovers comfortably a step away from Reo's shoulder.

So, how.

How is it that Nijimura can so casually lean over Akashi, and how is it that Akashi lets him.

"This time, we have Nijimura-san with us," Akashi says, finally looking up. Reo frowns at the honorifics---everyone else is practically in the same year. What gives.

"We can request an extra room instead of having just two."

Nebuya finally stops eating, Hayama perks up from the table, Reo keeps biting his straw.

"Hayama will be with Nebuya," Akashi says, having tucked away his phone and crossed his arms. "Mibuchi, you're with me, and Nijimura-san---"

"No thanks," a voice cuts in, and Reo quickly does a mental count of the people at the table. He forgot that Mayuzumi is at the edge of it.

Mayuzumi tips back his empty milkshake, flicking at the straw. He looks bored--- _is_ bored. They've been sitting here for nearly an hour.

"I'll share with Mibuchi," he says clearly, hard gray eyes a touch cynical. "You two should get a room."

Both Nijimura and Akashi raise a brow at him. Hayama and Nebuya have gone dead quiet (thanks to the food in their mouths.) Reo would've laughed, if he wasn't already annoyed.

A beat passes and Akashi looks at Reo, questioning, "Are you fine with sharing a room with Mayuzumi?"

Not even a hint of embarrassment, or an ulterior motive seeping into his face, Nijimura must be a born and bred natural _oblivious_. And Akashi--- Akashi can't even hide the expecting glint in his eyes.

_Ugh._

Reo slurps up the remaining, nonexistent soda and smiles.

"Well, if it's what Sei-chan wants."

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 04\. Shuuzou walks down the corridor.
> 
> Away from basketball, to the homework he’s left unfinished on his desk, and into the kitchen where his mother once was
> 
> “It’s in your hands now, Captain. I’m counting on you.”
> 
> (A semi-Nijimura centric drabble; hurt/comfort I guess.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello. Just some things I'm writing down since it's been really rough. _(:3 Hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless.

It probably started with eggs over rice mixed with shoyu dashed on top. That is, until weeks later, his brother complained about eating raw eggs, so Shuuzou tossed the bowl in the trash and started over.

He uses his laptop more for cooking than for school. Those blogs updated by those stay at home moms are now his new best friends. He browses it during homeroom period, taking mental notes on what to eat for the next meal.

His classmates have caught him bookmarking an easy recipe for spaghetti once.

“What are you making now,  _mom_?” one asked, throwing an arm around his shoulder. Shuuzou shrugs it off, flicks him in the face.

“Fuck off.”

Over time, Shuuzou adds recipe by recipe to his repertoire.

One night, he feels ambitious. Shuuzou decides to make a fusion of curry and hamburg; it recommends milk. He doesn’t have milk since Hiro drank the last drop, from the lip of the carton like an uncouth brat.

Shuuzou uses water instead.

It ends up tasting just how it should be.

 

 

 

_“Shuuzou, I’m sorry, I’ll be back late today too, can you make dinner for your brother and sister when you get home?”_

“It’s okay, I understand,” he says, studying his basketball shoes and kicking rocks against the wall. “How’s dad?”

_“He’s doing better, he’s still on antibiotics but…”_

“Captain!” a distant voice says. A frantic club member runs up from the side. It’s probably Haizaki again, probably provoking like he always does.

“I have to go. I’ll take care of things at home, so make sure dad eats all his medicine. I’ll see you later.”

 

 

 

Shuuzou has a clipboard that is thick with student information. There are over a hundred members in the club. That’s more than two hundred sheets. It’s thick, and sectioned into three clipboards.

During the first week of school, Shuuzou spends lunchtime memorizing everyone’s name in the first and second string.

Not many of them make the cut. They drop out mid-month.

Akashi takes care of the third string though, and he is always keen on recommending members that are ready to advance.

With conviction, Akashi says _Kuroko Tetsuya._

He doubts him at first, but says _All right._

Captain and vice captain often sit at the forefront of their growing army. Near the stage. they pick and choose their nominations.

“You’re not focused today,” Akashi says suddenly. Shuuzou blinks, and he remembers Akashi is there beside him.

Shuuzou clears his voice. “No, I’m just. Thinking.”

“I see,” Akashi says; he doesn’t look convinced, but there’s nothing Shuuzou owes him. “Well, I believe Takayuki Souichiro’s performance has declined in the last three weeks, I’ve heard that he’s skipped practice several times.”

Shuuzou drinks from his bottled water. “Hm, I’ll talk to him.”

Then, he says: “If he continues to slack, move Kinoshita up to the second string starting next week.”

“Understood.”

 

 

 

After practice, he keeps Takayuki back as everyone leaves. The second year is unsettled; he knows why Shuuzou is leveling a blank stare at him.

“I don’t see what’s wrong, it’s not like we get to play in the official games anyways,” Takayuki scoffs before Shuuzou can say anything.

“You’re right,” Shuuzou agrees. Official games are meant for the first string; this guy is far from competing anywhere near their level. “Doesn’t mean you can slack off.”

Takayuki curses under his breath. It reminds Shuuzou of Haizaki. And if this was Haizaki, a quick punch to his crown would set him straight.

But this is not Haizaki.

This is not someone with talent.

Teikou does not take anyone less than a soldier.

“Look, I’m sure you hear me say it all the time, but if you wanna stay here, you work for it.”

Shuuzou strides to the door, following the lines of the light filtered from the high ceiling. “If not, you’ll start next week in the third gym.”

He lets the door close behind him, cutting off a _fucking bast—_ in the making.

 

 

 

Next week, Takayuki hands his resignation papers. Shuuzou says nothing, the core team is unharmed. His dad’s cold gets better.

That’s all that mattered anyways.

 

 

 

A recipe online suggests using eggplants, but he knows there’s a sack of potatoes on the counter. Shuuzou reasons that baked potatoes have the same edible value as eggplant.

Eggplants for potatoes.

Kouko dissects it by stabbing her chopsticks straight through the middle, sticking up from the mound of rice. He flicks her lightly on the forehead—because you only do that when you’re praying to the dead. So _stop it._

At the end of dinner, there are more mashed potatoes than trash in the bin. Shuuzou has much to learn, it seems.

 

 

“Nijimura, was there any reason for you to be sleeping in class?”

“I was studying for my history test last night,” he lies, arms stiffly tucked behind his back. He’s rehearsed this a million times last year when his hair was shimmering gold, and a few times now since it’s returned black. 

His teacher rocks back in his reclining chair and taps his roster. Shuuzou doesn’t lie often, but he can’t admit to finishing homework at three in the morning.

“You’re the basketball captain, aren’t you? You’re to be an exemplary model for your underclassmen. This kind of behavior is inexcusable. You had a questionable track record last year; what kind of parents do you ha—”

He bows, torso almost parallel to the floor. Shuuzou frowns, voice carefully still. “I’m very sorry. I’ll be careful it doesn’t happen again.”

 

 

 

Perfume, pinned hair, light shade of lipstick, his mother stands in front of the mirror trying to recognize herself so she can fix her blouse.

Behind her, Shuuzou flips through his math homework and scowls at the set up: #1 comprises of 5 equations.

Problems within problems. 

“You’re fine. Go, before you miss the train.”

She’s nervous: smoothing her skirt down, and mumbling phrases of business Japanese to herself.

 _It is very nice to meet you, may I ask you to give me the opportunity, I would really love to expand my business skills_ because the last she’s learned them was twenty-some years ago in high school.

“Right,” his mother says and picks up her briefcase. She walks toward the door to what would be the 10th interview that month. “I’ll be home late.”

“Be careful,” Shuuzou says and means it. “I’ll make sure the two babies get their homework done.”

She opens her mouth, Shuuzou doesn’t even need to look at her, “ _And_ I’ll have them sleep by eleven, I got it. You’ll be late.”

“Then, I’ll be going now,” she says sheepishly, and leaves.

 

 

 

“Dad, can you sit up a bit, I’m gonna change your pillow.”

“It’s about time,” he says, breathily. Shuuzou waits as he feels his dad’s hand, feeble, grip his arm and lean close to him. “The nurses don’t come by a lot; it was starting to stink.”

“That must suck,” Shuuzou says. There are so many pillows on the hospital bed, most of them brought from home.

It’s the most chaotic assemble he’s ever seen. Shuuzou holds a pillow case that is polka dots, pink and mint green. It’s Kouko’s favorite.

“How’s school so far?”

Shuuzou unfolds another pillowcase for another pillow—square, bland. This one is from his bed set, gray stripes and white circles. “Well, I’m not blonde anymore.”

“Son, I may be sick but I’m not blind.”

For the first time that day, Shuuzou cracks a near-smile. “No, I mean—I don’t get into trouble anymore. School’s great. I’m the captain of the team now.”

“You? A captain?” His dad’s laugh is punctuated with deep coughs. 

Shuuzou waits.

“Hard to believe, huh?”

Pillowcases changed, Shuuzou folds them up and throws them in the bag. He’ll have it washed and brought back a week later.

“I’m proud. You’re good as a captain,” his dad says, eyes closing. He’s tired. Shuuzou was barely there for five minutes. 

Visit, wash, dry. Rinse, repeat.

 

 

 

Closed doors, stack of papers of resignation.

He doesn’t say anything but Shuuzou hears him breathe. A soft sigh, slow, through his nose.

Pen scratching; Akashi separates papers into stacks. He doesn’t say anything.

Akashi sits with his back straight, his eyes downcast as he reads; he divides them between the useless and the useful—for persuasion.

Shuuzou listens. The clock ticks, the hand flickers to five. Just a few more days until the weekend, he thinks.

A few more practices.

A few more visits.

The team. The family. The hospital.

Juggling, like a clown with torches.

Shuuzou reads.

It’s almost a carbon copy of applications but the other side of the coin.

 **Name: Kinomoto Akihiro**  
**Class: 2-D**  
**Reason for quitting:**

 _Useless._  Kinomoto only joined to impress, but impressed no one; it was the fifth-month mark and he had gone nowhere.

Shuuzou cards the paper to the left.

 _“Hey, mom, what’s for dinner today?”_  his classmate laughs— _fuck off, shut up._

 **Name: Shun Kenji**  
**Class: 1-B**  
**Reason for quitting:**

 _Useless_. Shun spent more times in the arcades than at practice. Talentless despite Teikou’s harsh training.

Shuuzou tosses the paper to the left.

 _“Shuu, I’m hungry,”_ Hiro complained— _I know, I know. Let me finish this question first._

A throb in the base of his neck; it’s been there for a while. Shuuzou squeezes his eyes, fingers pinching between his temples.

_Shuuzou, take care of your_

_This kind of behavior is inexcusable_

_How’s school_

He opens his eyes again; reading continues.

 **Name: Nijimura Shuuzou**  
**Class: 2-A**  
**Reason for quitting: so fucking tired**

“Nijimura-san.”

The pen stops scratching; Akashi looks up from his papers and his stacks. He doesn’t say anything.

Shuuzou blinks again.

It’s a different name, a different class, the last line remains blank.

“I’m all right,” Shuuzou says, curtly, frown setting in.

Akashi considers him carefully; he doesn’t look convinced, but there’s nothing Shuuzou owes him. “I didn’t ask if you were.”

Shuuzou’s lips quirk, what a cheeky kid. “Good, because that’s none of your business.”

Akashi looks at him, there’s something welling up in him, words perhaps. His lips are gently opened. A dip in his brow—but he decides against it.

Pen scratching; Akashi doesn’t say anything.

 

 

 

“Nijimura. It’s your dad,” his coach says during practice, but Shuuzou knows what that means.

Squeaking shoes and the net swishing become a distant sound in his ears. He nearly stumbles. “I’ll—” Shuuzou says, mouth numb, pushing past the coach to the locker rooms. “excuse myself for today.”

His calves burn as he bikes, to the station. He shoves it carelessly into the parking rack and almost forgets to lock and take his keys.

The Yamamote line comes nearly every five minutes, and he waits.

 _“He fell, the tubes detached,”_ his mother says, voice shaky over the phone. _“They didn’t notice until it was critical, but it’s okay, it’s okay— the doctors say he will be all right.”_

And waits, and waits.

The after work hours are the busiest on the train, he’s shoved in and shoved out by the crowds.

It’s dark when he arrives, unchanged from his basketball clothes, bag slung over his shoulders. He’s heaving, there never was much air in the first place, was there?

“They’re hungry,” his mother explains with Hiro and Kouko near her arms. She wears no makeup, the dark rings under her eyes are even more prominent. “We’re going to the cafeteria.”

“I’ll—wait here,” Shuuzou says, sinking into a seat on the bench.

Exhaustion, relief.

He sits there, burying his face into his hands and he breathes. One, two, three, four—breathe. Hold—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

_Breathe._

He hears a tap at the far end of the hall, and he lets go of his breath. Akashi stands there, Nijimura’s book bag hangs from his shoulder next to his.

He shouldn’t be surprised considering how he only grabbed his duffel bag.

“You didn’t have to bring that to me,” Shuuzou says, voice quiet. Akashi is in his uniform, crisp and wrinkle-free.

“Coach was worried,” Akashi says, and takes Shuuzou’s wordless invitation to sit beside him.

 _I was worried,_ Shuuzou hears him not say.

Thinking back, only Akashi paused to look when the coach called Shuuzou over. With one look, Akashi  _knew._

And isn’t that frightening.

Shuuzou dips his head, lets out a long sigh.

Akashi waits, quietly.

He doesn’t need comfort. He hates pity. Shuuzou knows he can’t say  _it’ll be all right_ when sometimes it isn’t.

“Just this once and then forget about it,” Shuuzou mumbles, leaning down until his head rests against Akashi’s shoulder. It’s small, almost fragile but the weight Akashi carries surpasses his.

Shuuzou breathes, it rattles his rib cage.

He feels a hand rest on the nape of his neck, gentle fingers carding through his hair. His touch is firm, alleviating.

“This never happened.”

 

 

 

“It hasn’t been officially decided yet,” Akashi says, face impassive, voice even blanker. It’s night, close to six. Shuuzou resists flicking him in the forehead then and there.

“It’s already been decided, you heard it,” he says. “…Does it make you uncomfortable?”

A beat passes, Akashi blinks slowly. The shadow crosses over his eyes. “…No, I’m just a little worried about Nijimura-san.”

 _There’s nothing for you to worry about,_ he doesn’t say. Instead, Shuuzou laughs. “I thought so.”

And he turns, Akashi is far behind him, watching.

Shuuzou walks down the corridor.

Away from basketball, to the homework he’s left unfinished on his desk, and into the kitchen where his mother once was

“It’s in your hands now, Captain. I’m counting on you.”

with an apron, he takes out from the fridge, ingredients for tonight’s curry.

This is just how things are.

Milk instead of water.


End file.
